


Laughter of Ghosts

by museaway



Category: Smallville
Genre: Breaking up before you even get together, Club-going Lex, First Kiss, Flirting, Happy Ending, Lies, M/M, POV Second Person, Sex on a dance floor, Stargazing, in the rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-25
Updated: 2004-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-01 06:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/353332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway/pseuds/museaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exorcising demons.  My personal favorite of my Smallville pieces. (Lex-centric, second person POV, mildly AU, third season, no specific episode ties.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laughter of Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Quotations taken from Niccolo Machiavelli's "The Prince," originally published in 1513.

_"We never flee one peril without falling into another. "_

...

Taste it as though it were yesterday.

Metal door cold against your palm. Wind blowing at the back of your neck, beneath the silk scarf your mother used to wear. Right hand curled around the ID card in your pocket, the one your father handed to you, saying, "Go out. It's not healthy to be indoors so much. " The one that says you're six years older than your birth certificate reports. Scalp exposed, and though your sleeves extend beyond your wrists and socks reach halfway up your calves beneath black pants, you feel more naked standing here on the sidewalk at 78th and Main than you did standing in only your skin before the bathroom mirror an hour before.

Vibrations in your toes translate the rhythm of the bass from inside the club to your skin. Steady pulsations traveling upward through your legs. Shiver against the cold and whir of passing cars. Beneath your hand, a sign on the door reads "no consequences" in black lettering. Swallow. The door is heavy, swings inward, and you throw your hip against it to pass through. Warm air wafts onto your face. Stench of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol. Music louder than it was outside, pumping. Calling. Close your eyes. Wish you'd taken a drink of your father's scotch before leaving, numbed your mind so you can't think to say no or turn back.

Flash your ID at the man seated behind a small lectern with peeling veneer. Watch him nod without really looking at the card. Wonder if you even need it. They know your age, your name, your face. Unwanted celebrity you can't escape, they can't ignore. But it's fear, not acceptance, that opens these doors. They'll never see anything more than naked scalp and leather exterior. Daddy's money. Ungrateful little bald boy and his imaginary crown of thorns.

Feel the weight of the man's eyes trailing over your body. Tuck the card away. Smooth the front of your jacket and pretend you don't notice the flush rising into your neck and your face. Too far along to stop now. Keep going. Lower your gaze. Shove your hands in your pockets and move toward the pounding bass in the next room.

Stand framed in the doorway. Observe from a distance this drone of bodies. This sea of flesh. Women leaning over metal railings. Twisting and writhing on raised platforms. Sweat stained dance floor crawling alive and vibrant. Living, breathing escape from reality. You'd give anything to be lost in the center of it.

Step forward into the blur. Dark heat encapsulating you. Mouth open, pant, lips wet from your tongue. You move. Tangled, the crowd stretches around and over and under, drags you deep into its web.

White tab on the tip of someone's finger, an offering, dry on your tongue. Swallow. Chase it with something bitter. Burns your throat. Pain like salvation somewhere hollow.

Cling. Grasp onto whatever your fingers touch. Drown.

Fire in your veins. New sensation. Slow motion, frame by frame, strobe light silent film before your eyes in technicolor. Blue flash, heat in your skin, and the floor is spinning out from beneath you, people swarming, moving so fast you can't keep your eyes on a single one before it blends with another and becomes something entirely different.

Voices in your head, indistinct and distant, yet so loud your ears hurt. Someone behind you. And then breath on your neck. Hot. Wet. No name, no face. Hard against your back. Teeth scraping along collarbones, and your head rolls back. Hands on your hips, fingers pushing to bruise. Grinding hard against you, and everything bright and wild and electric.

Hand on your cock, and you push forward. Straining. Turn around but don't look in his eyes. Tongue slick along your throat. Someone else's fingers where only yours have touched. Heat furling low in your stomach. Tingling underneath each toe. White behind your eyelids. He pushes toward you, and you scream, sound swallowed by the roar of this sea, the crashing of its tides.

And then his hands are gone. Skin cold where they had been. He steps back and laughs, curt and satisfied, and every eye nearby seems to turn, focus, and then it's just you in the middle of this abyss gasping for breath with laughter ringing harsh in your ears; and bloodstained cheeks like beacons, testimonies of innocence lost.

Stumble back toward the wall, sea parting, hands waving your farewell before you even have the chance to decide whether to go or to stay. Shrug the jacket from your shoulders and let it fall. Don't look back. Lean forward, palms splayed on your thighs, and inhale as the figures move in time with one another.

Lick your mouth, your bitten lips. Exhale. Stand as straight as you can. Rub a hand over the bruises slowly darkening on your neck. Wipe the sweat from your face. Unbutton your shirt. Push aside the fear. Plunge into the crowd.

No consequences.

...

_"Every one sees what you appear to be; few really know what you are."_

...

Early morning sun pouring through the window behind you paints a red and violet stained-glass pattern on the floor. An emptying glass of scotch calling itself breakfast rests to the left of the computer. Pleasant warmth in your throat, a calm dizziness that makes you forget, if only for an hour, the immense pressure that accompanies every angle of being Alexander Luthor. The stress of having to prove yourself again and again each day of your life to a man who should, being blood, love unconditionally.

Reach for the glass and allow its remainder to splash against your tongue, soft burning sour flavor that saturates, and you lick the insides of your mouth to savor the last of it before setting the glass down again. Make a mental note to have a new bottle brought up from the reserve in time for lunch. Dab your lips with a linen handkerchief. Close your eyes and breathe. Let the quiet spread throughout your body, a momentary listlessness that fades when across the room, Clark Kent clears his throat. You raise your eyes to him and cannot fight the smile that spreads when his eyes lock with yours and hold, then dart away as the blush rises in his face.

"Something the matter, Clark?"

He sits in the center of the room, upon a large area rug costing more than his parents' entire house, surrounded by various texts and old spiral notebooks you dug up from your college days. Green eyes bright the way yours may have been years ago had you taken the time to find out. Flannel unbuttoned at the collar, hanging open loose and comfortable. He raises a hand and brushes dark hair from his eyes where it's fallen. Imagine it soft and feathered against your fingertips, beneath your lips as you cradle his head in your hands and rock quietly together.

"Nope," he says, poring over the laws of physics. Tracing a finger along each line as he compares his notes to yours. Imagine that same finger tracing lines across your skull, your face, your chest. "I'm good."

You—behind your desk, hands poised unmoving above the keyboard—memorize the curve of his neck as he leans forward. Skin bronzed from the sun, youthful and smooth where it disappears beneath his clothes. Unblemished, unspoiled. Press your lips together and refrain from reciting him sonnets; wonder if perhaps you should've had more scotch or none at all.

Address an email to your father. "Regarding yesterday's proposal" in the subject line. Stop typing after the salutation. Try and remember if you had anything to say to him in the first place, or if this was a scotch-induced attempt to stop gawking at your seventeen year old visitor who looks up at you with a confused expression and says, "Um."

Discard the email without saving and act surprised to find his eyes on you, as though you've never contemplated that before; as though you couldn't sculpt his likeness from clay with your own eyes closed.

"Yes?"

He knots his eyebrows together, pushes to his feet and trots over to your desk. Skirts around it until he's nearly perching on the armrest of your chair, smelling of hay and grass and outdoors. Fight the urge to inhale against him indefinitely. He holds the notebook before your face—crisp white paper and sharp black ink, now smudged from his touching. Points a finger at a hastily-scrawled line of words in the center of the page.

"Mocking my handwriting?" you ask, peering up at him, and your fingers brush alongside the back of his as you push his hand aside.

"I can't read it," he admits, rubbing at his nose, blood rising prettily along his cheekbones.

"Any of it?"

"No." He shakes his head, dark curls spilling over his forehead. "Just this line."

Squint down at your college hand and laugh when the letters merge into understanding.

"What's it say?" he prods.

" 'It is far better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both.' "

Eyes widening, he smiles and says "Oh!" as though it's the most clearly-written sentence in the world now that your tongue has wrapped around the words. Looks at you like you're a god among men, makes you cringe. You don't deserve that. Bright eyed innocent child, alien to your corporate world, and here you are, his centerpiece. "That's not one of Newton's laws. Did you write it?"

Laugh at the endearing naivete. "No," you say. "It's Machiavelli."

"Oh, right," he says, as though he knew that all along. Nods his head. Leans against the side of your chair, denim-clad leg touching your arm, and studies the words. Purses his lips together. Breathes out, warm breath blowing past your ear. Shiver. Curl your hands around the armrests. "Do you believe that? About fear, I mean."

Ghosts of humiliation circling about you, phantom laughter almost audible, memory of holding back the scream until you were too far away for any of them to hear. The shift in faces when you clawed and bit and fucked your way to the center, caused their shrieks and their moans, bought yourself respect through ruthlessness. Years after the fact, and these are still the most immediate experiences you can conjure.

"Yes. `Love endures by a bond which men, being scoundrels, may break whenever it serves their advantage to do so; but fear is supported by the dread of pain, which is ever present. ' "

"Are you quoting again?"

"Mmm."

"I just don't believe that," he says. "I don't want people to be afraid of me. They don't have to love me, either. I just want..."

"Respect?"

"Not even that. Just, y'know. For them to accept me, I guess."

Nod. Hurt somewhere inside knowing you'd likely accept whatever he is if only he would trust you enough to say it. That he gives you everything of himself except the truth. Feel your face burn. Throat tighten. Is there such a thing as silent betrayal? Hear yourself say, harsher than you mean to, "Maybe you should come back later."

Watch his face fall, his struggle to keep that quirky smile on his lips though his eyes dim. A glance at your laptop, at the folders and the empty glass of scotch. A scramble to stand and fold the notebook closed.

"I'm sorry," he says, biting his lip. "You're busy. I'll—"

"No, it's just...I'm not feeling that well."

He softens, hands pausing in their work. He reaches one out to touch your forehead, soft and gentle the way his mother must have taught him. Flinch but don't pull away. "You don't feel too warm," he says, fingers trailing away from your face and dropping to his side. Imagine comet tails behind them. "Can I bring you anything?"

Shake your head, and then the pressure is gone along your arm as he walks away to collects his things from the center of the room. Tucks them into his backpack. Slings it over his shoulder. Follow him with your eyes until he turns around; angle your head and concentrate on the folder to your right marked "confidential. " There is a scratch cleaving the "c" in two. Ten letters separating it from the "l. " Three of the four letters from both "love" and "fear. " The word itself beginning with "confide. " Wonder if you are the only one who sees significance in details like these.

"I'll come by this afternoon, `kay?" he says, and you reach out to cover the scratch with your right hand. "See how you're feeling?"

Nod his goodbye into your lap. Hear the sigh resounding in your head long after it escapes his mouth. Footsteps leading to the door, and he's gone by the time you raise your head.

...

_"For injuries ought to be done all at one time, so that, being tasted less, they offend less."_

...

A cool fall night finds you ascending a familiar staircase, hearing the creak of old wood beneath your feet with each step. Strain in your knees as you climb. Breath like clouds in the air. Soft lowing of a cow somewhere in the distance, a strange lullaby played against the backdrop of a cricket quartet. You feel warm despite the temperature outside, perhaps because of the natural insulation of hay bales, or the boy who awaits you in his loft.

You could see his outline in the window when you stepped from your car minutes before, quietly shutting the door, pocketing your keys, and pulling your coat tight around your stomach. The lights were off in the main house except for a soft glow from an upstairs window. You smiled at the idea of Martha insisting on nightlights to keep the men in her life from running into walls. What must it be like to wake up and know that you are loved? There aren't any nightlights in the mansion.

Standing silent, you watched him. Leaned back against the car, still warm from the drive over, and traced him with your eyes. Watched his silhouette bend at the waist and adjust the telescope. And what was it that he saw just then, you had to wonder. Inhaled the clean night air that held no answers and started toward the barn.

The wood groans under your weight. How much of the wear on these steps is your doing? How many evenings have you climbed this same height, entered the boy's sanctum without invitation? Seen him standing, back toward you, long lines of flannel and denim? Watched him turn when you clear your throat? Been met with that glowing smile, impossibly bright eyes, and "Hey, Lex."

"Hey. " Tuck your hands deep inside your pockets, standing close to the railing. Curl your fingers into your palms. Lower your eyes to the floor at something that might be a flutter in your stomach when his smile broadens. "Sorry to drop by like this."

He regards you quietly, eyes soft and expectant where they blink from behind his tangle of dark hair. "I don't mind," he says. "But I thought you were going to be in Metropolis until the end of the week."

The skin across your forehead feels tight when you frown. Shake your head. "I came back early."

And then he's turned away from you again, cotton-shrouded broad back and long legs like no teenager should have. "I'm glad."

Contemplate the distance between your bodies. Five strides, and you could be at his side, warm and protected in ways you never are with anyone else, in ways you could not begin to explain were you forced to. Keep your distance, back pressing up against the rail. Focus as though this is the last time you will ever be allowed to witness him.

He uses slow, deliberate motions as he glides his telescope across the night sky. Confidence he never shows at any other time. Once, you believed he claimed the stars only to be closer to Lana Lang, to be with her in this one sense when he denied himself any other. But she hasn't lived next door to the Kents for many months now, and you have begun to understand that perhaps the heavens truly are his love, that Lana was just a boy's fascination. Something much closer than a star. Something Clark could touch and feel, not the glow of a celestial body lightyears away, long extinguished before it ever reaches his eyes.

Hold your breath and celebrate him. Dark hair curling gently at the nape of his neck. His breath rising in wisps from a mouth you cannot see. Blue t-shirt peeking out from underneath red flannel. You wonder sometimes if his crayon box lacked all but primary colors. If he knows that blue and red together make purple, the shade of the cloth covering your own arms.

Turning suddenly, his eyes meet yours and ask without words why you're so quiet. Don't answer. Step forward until you're beside him. Feel the corners of your mouth turn up at the heavy gaze he fixes upon you. The warmth when he reaches out to touch your arm, slides his fingers down to your wrist and takes your hand in his. Places it on top of the telescope and says, "Just move it around. To whatever it is you wanna see."

His hand pressed against yours, breath rising like smoke in the air. Red and blue and black and purple and _you_. Plural, the way the French intend it. You, meaning you and he, and no one else. Touching quietly in the dim light of the barn, telescope between, symphony of your shallow breaths. This is the closest to home you'll ever be.

"I," you begin. Clear your throat. Duck your head and adjust your collar. "I don't know much about stars." Study dust patterns and ridges in the floorboards instead of your hands. Touching.

"Really?" he asks, and perhaps he's genuinely surprised because he isn't smiling. He isn't laughing either.

Bite the inside of your cheek, ragged little tears of flesh between your teeth. "My father thought it was more important to focus on immediate things. Not something so inconsequential to a business venture."

"Oh."

The way he stares down at you makes it hard to draw a breath. He turns his head and stares out at the sky, raising his right hand to trace patterns you would not see otherwise. The sky looms large before you, and you feel insignificant against it.

"That's Aquila," he whispers. "The eagle. It brought Ganymede to Zeus. To be his cupbearer."

Don't stop to question him on his knowledge of cupbearers and what Ganymede _actually_ did for Zeus or why he's rubbing tiny circles onto the back of your hand.

"Quite the mythology expert. "

"I read it for school." Even in the poor lighting, know that he's blushing. He points to a bright star in the center of the constellation. "See that?" he says. "That's Altair. It's the eleventh brightest in the sky."

"I didn't know that."

"Yeah?" he says. "It's cool. To be able to teach you something for once. I mean, sometimes it's like...like I'm this dumb kid you've gotta put up with and..."

"Don't. " Speak it firmly, eyebrows furrowing. "You're not. And I don't `put up' with you."

Sudden rush of movement, faster than should be possible. His stomach firm against your back, holding you upright because your knees shake uncontrollably for a reason you do not want to name. His breath at your neck. Hand tightening on yours.

"Clark?"

"Hm?"

His voice, vibrations in your skin. While the looks and smiles and small touches might've been innocent at one point, there is no mistaking what he intends any longer. Ask him anyway, demand the truth from his own throat.

"What're you doing?"

Soft lips brush the shell of your ear. "I like you," he whispers.

Close your eyes. "You shouldn't."

"Don't say that." Breath wet against your neck. Hurt laced plea.

"It's the truth. "

"No, it's not." Kisses pressed along your skin. "I really like you"

Reach down with your other hand and disentangle his from yours. "I don't want anyone to be hurt."

"You can't hurt me."

Pull your sleeve down over your wrist. "I don't mean physically."

He steps away from you and stares down at his hands as if looking for an explanation to your actions. "Oh."

"I don't want to get...involved."

"At all?"

"Emotionally."

"Why?"

"Because when it's anything more than physicality, things become explosive."

He raises defiant eyes to yours. Stares. Challenges. "What about Desiree? And Helen? You _married_ them."

Squeeze the bridge of your nose. "And look where that got me."

"I'm not gonna hurt you."

/ _No_ , _you didn't hit me_. _It was adrenaline_. _I'm really happy that you're getting married_. _I'm not gonna hurt you_ , _Lex_. /

Foundation of lies with your savior perched at its peak, reaching out his hand to yours but always leaving you a pace behind. Lost and drowning. If that's what destiny is about, you don't want to be his.

It has grown colder in this space since you arrived, the comfort bleeding away into the wind whistling through the roof. Reach for your keys and turn them, cold, in your palm.

"I've got to go."

"Lex— "

"Clark, don't. Please. Just don't."

Retreat from the steps and their mocking groans, from the telescope and the stars beyond and the boy calling, "Lex!" down the stairs behind you. Run with keys in hand, and don't look back over your shoulder. Don't look to see if he's watching after you from the window above. Open the door and climb inside and don't think of him. Don't think of him.

Start the engine and maneuver into reverse. Back toward the house and shift to first gear. Floor the gas pedal and peel away from the farm in an upsweep of gravel. Shift to second—screech of tires—then third. A house light flickers to life in your rearview mirror where you're leaving him behind.

...

_"The wise man does at once what the fool does finally."_

...

At half-past noon on the first of May, you tap a pen against the side of your desk and roll your eyes at the inane prattle being transmitted across the phone wires. Something about a delay in production at plant number four in Grandville and a proposed revision to the company policy on intradepartmental dating.

Outside, the birds are singing, and there is a large patch of sunlight covering half of the desk. You wonder, idly, what would happen were you to set down the phone and walk out of the office, out of the mansion and out onto the grounds. Find a tree large enough to lean against and just sit for the remainder of the afternoon, head between your knees. How long would it take before anyone realized you'd stepped away? Hate how old these matters makes you feel, the sensation that your skin is wrinkling as you waste away your hours trapped in your father's world. Long for the days in Metropolis when all that mattered was finding a club that didn't ask questions.

As you near the phase of nodding off, your chin dropping toward your chest, a cacophony of voices rouses you from the monotony. Sit up, yawn, stretch your arms over your head, and listen as Enrique informs whoever it is that Mr. Luthor is incredibly busy, and would he please come by another time? Make a mental note to give the man a larger-than-usual holiday bonus. Listen as determined footsteps pound closer to your office. Turn your attention back to the phone conversation momentarily when you hear the phrase, "not a conflict of interests." Decide that this man is, without a doubt, sleeping with one of his interns.

Years ago, when he first sent you to Smallville, Lionel let it be known that you were a fool to have your office within your home, that a true businessman must disconnect himself from all things of domestic comfort in order to remain purely objective and focused at all times. You, being staunch against resembling your father in any way, decided that your office would remain in your home indefinitely, just to spite him. You're very pleased with your decision.

Gladly end the call due to the disturbance, saying you'd prefer the proposal be sent in writing for your later perusal. Don't bother informing the man that by "perusal," you actually mean using the papers as a coaster while you consume more alcohol than can be supported by a _healthy_ liver. Do not speculate as to the health of yours. Raise a hand to your forehead and rest against it momentarily, sliding your face against your fingers until they rake across your temple. Listen to Enrique's pleading and smirk when it's obvious his wishes aren't being heeded, because he's one of the few people to whom _you_ actually listen.

The disturbance makes himself known, pushing his way through the doors to your office as though he held in hand the deeds to the mansion. Peer up at him through your fingers. Note his flushed skin, how nostrils flare as he tries to catch his breath. Jacket askew, hair windblown and begging for a comb. Lips pink where you assume he's bitten them.

"What're you doing here?"

He shrugs, casual in demeanor, though his eyes betray him.

"Thought we could talk."

When was the last time he stood before you like this, with his face open and searching? The last time you saw those eyes look back at your own instead of darting away, pretending they had not met yours to begin with? You lost count after four months, after his continual avoidance. After your own fear precluded the possibility of the friendship continuing as it once had.

You continue to order produce from his family's farm, but you don't wait in the kitchen for him to bring it inside with an offer of a drink and a round of billiards the way you had for so long. Nor do you frequent the Talon, tucked away in the corner pretending to read stock reports and company profiles, hoping for a few moments of his time when he passes through the doors to gawk at Lana. Try not to think about the possibility that all that time, the fawning over Ms. Lang was only a ploy, a ruse to conceal his excitement at the possibility of seeing you. Don't think about how things might have been; focus on how things are. Lana provides Talon updates over the phone, and you brew your own coffee, now.

Fold your hands in your lap. Look at him the way you would look at anyone bursting into your office midday. Cold. Calculating. Superior.

"Glad as I am to see you, Clark, I don't have time to talk just now."

He takes a step forward, raising his eyebrows. He doesn't look away, doesn't let your stare overpower his own.

"So make time."

"Maybe you don't understand how a business works." Spit it. Acidic words you wish could burn him. Burn yourself. "See -"

He brings his hand down on the desk, firm, and the floor vibrates under the soles of your shoes. Close your mouth, stare wide-eyed at the imprint in the wooden desktop, the five-pointed starburst of Clark's handprint now embossed in ebony and lacquer. Know somehow that had he wanted it, the force of his hand could've cleaved the desk in two.

Were this any other day, you'd joke about respecting personal property, and hadn't he ever heard of antiques? But your mind is, instead, uncharacteristically blank. Open your mouth to speak and shut it again. Frown and slump back in the chair. Catch your breath. In front of you, chest heaving, he hangs his head, eyes cast down, but he doesn't back away and isn't trying to write this off as adrenaline.

Reach your left hand forward and skim along the imprint, dip your fingertips into the hollows of his.

"So," he says, and it is as much conversation as you can stand just now. He rests a hand upon yours, thumb rubbing tiny circles that spread outward like ripples on standing water, tingling in your skin, as if you can feel the motion of his hand on yours in every cell.

"Can we go for a walk?" he asks, not daring to raise his eyes and meet yours any longer, forcing you to stare at the black fringe splayed against his skin. He's a child again, standing before you exposed. "It's supposed to rain soon."

Still focused upon the indentations, press your right hand against your mouth. Lips trembling. Bite down hard on the index finger and don't pull away even though it hurts. Find yourself nodding through the haze.

He must've helped you to your feet because you find yourself being led through the office doors and down the corridor, through the entry hall and outside into the sunlight. Squint against the glare, bring a hand up to shield your eyes and follow after him. Across the lawn, bending around the side of the mansion and past the meticulous gardens wasted on everyone save the gardener who attends them. Tiny hints of color dust the tips of flowers pushing themselves toward the sun, waiting to bloom. Realize that in the many years you have called the castle "home," you have yet to spend an afternoon walking about the gardens. Taking in the natural beauty around you.

Clark tugs on your hand, stepping surely across the grass while you take in the surroundings. When he stops walking, you are centered in a stand of small blue wildflowers. The sky is fringed with dark stormclouds rolling quickly overhead.

The gardener will likely inform you of this later—unwanted footprints in the gardens—but you can't bring yourself to care because you are mere inches from this boy whose hands hold your own. You understand why Shakespeare wrote as he did; to be this beautiful must be a crime in some part of the world. Clark's eyes are closed, but his mouth opens and he speaks.

"I—Lex, I. I have to tell you something. And I've been wanting to tell you for so long, only. I didn't know how. And I thought you'd be so mad at me for not telling you before, but my parents, they didn't want anyone to know. Not anyone."

Nod. Quickly, before he changes his mind. Before he drops your hands, walks away just as you did. Leaves you behind, too scared to run after him because you'll never be that brave.

"The only person who ever knew was Pete, and he said...he said it was too much responsiblity, that he wished sometimes he didn't know, and I—I didn't want you thinking that. Not about me. I didn't ever want you to regret anything about me, and I."

He takes a deep breath and leans forward until your foreheads touch.

"Before. When you got sick. You knew. You saw Edge's car hit me when I pushed you out of the way. And then —"

His voice breaks. There is wet against your face.

"—and then I didn't see you for so long, and they made you forget, Lex, they made you forget and I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I wanted to—tell you—so bad, but I was scared. And then I thought you'd hate me because I'd lied, and I —"

The ragged breaths he exhales are warm against your lips.

"—didn't wanna lose you. I can't lose you. Promise me I'm not gonna lose you again."

A tightness in your throat hinders your ability to speak, but you nod. Squeeze his hands between your own. Bite your lip until the metallic tang of blood shocks your tongue.

"I'm an alien."

That quiet voice in your ears, swimming round—words in form but without meaning. Foreign on your tongue.

"An alien?"

His hand is warm inside of yours, soft despite the work it undertakes. Lips so close, those same lips that kissed yours beside the river. In the distance, thunder rumbles.

 _I could've sworn I hit you_.

"Yes."

Understanding dawns bright where there had been nothing but confusion lurking—wandering this impossible labyrinth—like in the dream you still have on too-warm nights of the pretty boy stripping the roof from your car and wrapping his arms around you.

Bringing you to light.

"I hit you on the bridge."

Breathing you to life.

"Yes. "

Stare down at his hands, hands that look so much like yours, wrists no different from the wrists of anyone else you've ever touched. At eyes more human than any you have ever seen .

"Why—why're you here?"

He snorts, puff of air on your face. "To conquer the world."

"You're being serious?"

"Yeah. Well, I'm not really going to conquer anything."

Smile against his mouth, this boy from the stars.

The sky burns with lightening strikes above as you breathe in what he exhales. Lips quietly press to your own as the rain begins to fall and puddle at your feet. Your hands thread through his hair, wet and soft where it brushes your face.

The laughter of ghosts washes away with the rainfall.


End file.
